


Crystallised Desires

by rufeepeach



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-28
Updated: 2012-05-28
Packaged: 2017-11-06 05:03:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/414991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rufeepeach/pseuds/rufeepeach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Belle is heavily pregnant, and mightily frustrated. She encourages Mr Gold to have some fun without her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crystallised Desires

The baby had better come soon.   
  
Belle is serious: she’s this close to simply booking herself into the hospital and pushing, and forcing the kid out whether it’s ready or not.   
  
She’s massive, the size of a house, and she aches all over. She’s never felt less sexy, less attractive or more bloated in her life, and it’s as uncomfortable as it is upsetting. Even despite the fact her husband can’t keep his hands off her, and his eyes following her wherever she goes: Belle is about as far from  content as it’s possible to get.   
  
Rum is ecstatic, and can’t stop touching her belly, feeling their baby kick under his hands, or running his hands through her newly-thickened hair. Sometimes she catches him simply staring at her, with a look caught between the deepest love she’s ever seen and a kind of baffled wonder, as if she still can’t be real even though she’s hormonal and aching, waddling through the house like some kind of constipated elephant.   
  
He insists she’s glowing; she’s just happy he doesn’t think she’s as disgusting as she feels.   
  
It’s just not fair, though, when she’s lying in their bed, unable to sleep, reading some godawful romance novel by her tiny bedside light, trying not to wake him, and the author decides just to throw some sex in for the hell of it.   
  
Yes, it’s been building to this, and the front cover was a dead giveaway, and if she wasn’t so distracted by the weight in her stomach and the swelling in every other part of her, she’d have returned it to Mary Margaret weeks ago and found herself something with an actual plot. But she’s pregnant, heavily so, and tired all the time, and this was all she could handle.   
  
And now there’s adult-touching, and feelings, and she’s frustrated and entirely unable to do a thing about it. She’s somehow managing to be hot and bothered and turned on without feeling the least inclination to wake up her husband and actually  _ do _ anything.   
  
And it’s bloody  _ annoying _ .   
  
But it’s too late, and she’s made some kind of little moan in the back of her throat, and Rum is awake in a moment.   
  
The man has bat-sonar or something: he always knows when he’s needed. Or wanted. Or extremely  _ not _ wanted, but happy to make a nuisance of himself anyway. Bastard.   
  
“Belle?” he murmurs, sleepy but not enough, “You awake?”   
  
She sighs, “My light’s on and I have a book open, what do you think?”   
  
“I don’t know,” he props himself up on one arm, and he’s so gorgeous all sleep-tousled and relaxed, with those drooped bedroom eyes and dark pupils, “Found you asleep that way before.”   
  
Well, she won’t dispute that.   
  
“Fine. Yes. Awake.”   
  
“And, ah,” he smirks at her, and she wonders how long he’s been awake, how well he must actually _know_ her to know immediately what kind of a problem she’s having, “What were you reading?”   
  
She goes bright red, and throws the book down, “Nothing, just one of Mary Margaret’s favourites, you know...” she hopes invoking the sweet, innocent, pure-as-the-driven-snow schoolteacher will remove whatever he’s thinking. No such luck.   
  
“Uh huh...” he plucks the book from her hands, and she covers her eyes, half exasperated and half entirely mortified, “Well,” he murmurs, after a moment, “I have an entire new respect for dear Snow White.” He smirks at her over the top of the book, “Having a little trouble, are we?”   
  
“No.” she sighs, runs a hand over her stomach, “That’s the problem!”   
  
“What?” his hand laces through hers, his eyes still dark and fixed on her, “What’s the matter, dear?”   
  
“I ah...” she bites her lip, and hopes he’ll understand, “I have all the... feelings, you know? But little baby here doesn’t want me acting on them. All mind and no body.”   
  
“Ah...” he nods, and looks a little disappointed. She glances down, and wonders if that old idea about men being all visual is entirely accurate: he seems pretty turned on by the book all on its own.   
  
Then again, doesn’t she get a little twinge of desire every day when she sees him there, all sleepy and rumpled and hers? How must he feel, looking at her, swollen with his child and his wife and in love with him? He’s told her a hundred times how much he loves her, what she means to him, how much he wants her every second of the day: perhaps she’s not the only one with a problem here.   
  
“It um,” she smiles, and still for all they’ve done together this makes her blush, “It doesn’t mean you can’t... I mean, just because I can’t do anything, doesn’t mean you should suffer.”   
  
He stares at her a moment, and then catches her meaning. “I wouldn’t... no, it’s alright,” he smiles, “I can wait until you’re ready to join in.”   
  
She smiles back, but it’s not an altogether innocent look she has: her imagination has caught hold of the idea, and now it won’t let go, “What about if I wanted you to?” she asks, voice pitched low in that tone she knows he loves, “I can’t do anything, but at least one of us should be having a little fun...” She rolls over to face him, reaches a hand down to cup him through his pajama pants, and he gasps.   
  
“Hmm, someone’s happy to be awake,” she smirks, and it’s a horrible line, but he doesn’t seem to care.   
  
“Someone’s happy you’re nearby,” he growls back, but she’s shifting her hand up and down his shaft and he’s shifting his hips, trying in vain to stay still, “No big surprise.”   
  
“Hmmmm,” she slows her hand, and shifts the bedclothes down off of them, so she can see him properly. If they’re going to do this, then she at least wants to be able to watch, “Take over from me,” she whispers into his ear, all warm breath and secrets, and he stills.   
  
“I’m sorry?” he’ll deny it in the morning, but his voice is little more than a squeak and she hides her giggle behind her hand.   
  
“You heard me.” she uses her free hand to take hold of his right wrist and pull it down, so it covers hers on his straining cock, and then slowly pulls her hand away to leave him alone, touching himself in their bed, “I know you do this,” she whispers, “I know you like to watch me, how much you want me even though it’s impossible right now...” his hand has started moving, slow hard pumps up and down, and she wishes so badly that this baby could be born already, so they could do this properly.   
  
“You like watching me, don’t you?” she continues, trying to get him started, “You like how I’m all filled up with you, your baby, all yours...” he’s nodding, his hand moving just a little faster, “What’re you going to do, when I’m ready for you again, hmmm?” she runs her tongue around the shell of his ear, and he shivers, moans and bucks into his own fist. “Tell me...”   
  
“I’m going to...” he grinds out, “Going to take you so hard against a fucking wall. Or the floor... lay you down and make you scream so loud...”   
  
“Yes...” she encourages, “And then?” He seems at a loss for what to say, so she whispers, “All that time, when we were in the castle and you came nowhere near me... what did you want to do then?”   
  
“Oh, Gods,” he groans, and she can almost see the parade of images flashing through his mind, “The table... the dining room table, I wanted to bend you over it, fuck you from behind so hard and deep, so you couldn’t walk after, so you’d remember that you’re  _ mine _ ...” he’s moving faster now, rhythmic and hard, and she hums encouragingly. It’s worse than the book, because she never would have thought of it then but now, now she wishes he had, so badly.   
  
“Yes...” she purrs, “How much, how much did you want that?”   
  
“So much, so much, oh, Belle, I love you... I’ve loved you forever... since the gold dress...”   
  
Really? Well, that’s news. He seems so open, so uncontrolled, and she has never been in a situation with him like this and her still in possession of all her faculties. Exploitation is such a harsh word. “Since then? Do you wish you’d done it then? Just taken me over the table, with the tea things?”   
  
“Yes...” he groans, “Yes, you looked so pretty, so pretty and brave and scared and I loved you. Didn’t know it...” he admits, jerking hard, “Too busy looking down your dress...” she giggles at that, because she’s suspected for a while: nice to have confirmation, “Just wanted to... fuck you against everything, even the spinning wheel... I dreamt about tying you to it and making you  _ moan _ ...”   
  
His breath is coming out in those jagged little pants, the ones she knows he makes right when he’s so close, so close to coming hard and fast. All he needs is one little push to make him spiral over the edge, “I wanted you to,” she breathes, right against his earlobe, “I wanted you to drag me to your bedchamber and make love to me for hours.”   
  
“Yes...”   
  
“I wanted to beg you,” she says, “I wanted you to strip that blue dress off me bit by bit, devour me whole...”   
  
“Yes, yes, fuck, Belle!” He’s so close, she can see it, his hand working up and down his length in hard, fast tugs. She watches avidly, drinking in and memorising every little grunt and whimper he makes, the thrust of his hips and the low, groaning, desperate texture of his voice.   
  
“Would you have done that, hmmm?” she’s enjoying this way too much, stroking his hair and nibbling on his ear, and he’s so close she can almost feel it herself.   
  
“Yes, gods, wanted to make you  _ scream _ , make you come for me, so beautiful, my Belle... “   
  
“When, when was it worse, when did you want me so badly it hurt?” She prompts.   
  
“In the library,” he pants, “I found you when you were reading and blushing and...”   
  
Oh. She remembers that day: the day she discovered a novel rather akin to the one she had been reading just a few minutes ago. Her innocent little virginal self had been rather shocked by the contents, but she’d never known she’d had an audience!   
  
“I wanted to help, I wanted... fuck... I wanted to run my tongue along your neck... pull you onto my lap, hold you there and have you ride me while you read... Make you understand every line of that bloody fucking book...”   
  
“I wanted that,” she confides, and she sees the effect, as he bucks up hard into his hand, sweating and moaning, “I wanted you inside me so badly it hurt, and every time you came near it made it worse. I wanted you to  _ fuck me _ ,” she enunciates the words, knows how much of a turn on it is for him when she swears, when she steals his dirty words, “With your fingers and your mouth and your  _ cock _ , so hard I’d see stars...”   
  
And she had, so badly, even if she couldn’t crystallise those desires at the time, even if she hadn’t had a word for the pleasure that had spiralled through her at just a brush of his hands, just being close enough to touch him.   
  
He pumps once, twice, three times and she feels all the tension peak and then leave his body as he comes, staining the bedsheets, groaning deep in his throat.   
  
She giggles, pets his hair, and he smiles at her, half-abashed but mostly just stupidly happy. He grimaces at the mess he’s made, and leans over to his bedside table, cleans the place up as best he can with a handful of tissues. Then he kisses her, long and deep and languid, the kiss of a man both passionately in love with his wife, and also ready to sleep for days.   
  
She sighs, somehow more relaxed than she has been four days, and rolls back onto her back. She commits every newly-revealed secret to memory, and falls to sleep to plans and dreams of wish fulfillment.


End file.
